The DL
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Hank gets a call in the middle of the night and has to deal with two of his favorite patients.


Title: The D.L.

Summary: And Hank was starting to get some really disturbing images in his head, which was more than enough reason to focus on one pressing issue at a time. Safe sex lecture: much later. The risks of underage drinking: as soon as he could fit it in. Look at the bleeding hemophiliac: _now_.

Rating: PG-13

Characters: Hank, Tucker, Libby

A/N: I've needed a new show for awhile now since many of the others I used to like are sort of driving me insane. So I found Hank and the gang a nice distraction, though it must be admitted that I'm very partial to Tucker, so I'm hoping we see more of him in the future. Until then, I had to write _something_, and this was what I came up with. The characterization may not quite be on there, but it was my first go with these characters, so I can't promise much :) Much thanks to sendintheclowns and geminigrl11 for the beta.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

Working long and irregular hours was kind of something he was used to. After all, in the hospital, his shifts had been steady and long, often inconsistent. He'd worked the night shift and he'd worked double shifts and he'd pulled weekends and even a few holidays, much to his girlfriend's chagrin.

Even with all that, there was a certain predictability to it.

In the Hamptons, the only thing predictable was how ridiculously unpredictable his clients could be. From the run-of-the-mill joes who didn't want his help, to the disgustingly opulent rich who refused to take _soon_ for an answer when they wanted _now_, Hank had to service them all, at any hour of the day or night.

But did they _really_ have to call at three AM?

_Really_?

He'd attended a few parties on official business that took him on call until the guests left, spent, the next morning. And he was okay with that, with the certainty involved in that type of gig (and the paychecks weren't really so bad either). But, random calls in the middle of the night? Were just _so not cool_.

So when his phone rang, he grumbled a curse at Evan, who kept turning his phone on and sticking it next to his bed without his consent. Hank wasn't even sure which was more disturbing: the fact that Evan wanted an extra paycheck _that _badly or that his brother was sneaking into his room in the middle of the night.

The ring sounded again, loud, and he considered briefly the ways to eviscerate his brother without being caught.

Another ring and Hank was awake, grappling for the phone and slapping it to his face with a growled, "Hello."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Hank?"

Closing his eyes, Hank rubbed his face. "Yeah, this is Hank," he said, a little less angry this time. Envisioning the possible ways to inflict pain on his brother without killing him or even incurring permanent damage was kind of uplifting for the moment, anyway.

There was another pause and then a dramatic sniffle and a slight mewling noise.

Sitting up, Hank asked, "Hello?"

"Oh, Hank," the voice said again, wobbling this time.

"Libby?" he asked.

"You need to come," she said. "Please."

Hank's chest tightened a little. Libby had called him more than once since he'd met her, with a barrage of questions and concerns related to some rather ridiculous medical problems, but while she had been on edge during those conversations, she hadn't been hysterical. And it hadn't been the middle of the night. Even cyberchondriacs needed to sleep, which meant that something was up. "What is it? Where are you?"

"It's Tucker," she said, and she cried a little. "Please, come, it's Tucker."

His heart skipped a beat. "Libby, what's wrong with Tucker?"

"Just...come. Hurry, please," she said.

"Libby, what's wrong with--" Hank got out before the phone cut out. "Libby?"

Silence answered him.

He glanced at the clock again and briefly considered calling 9-1-1. If Tucker needed help, he might need it now. Hank had pulled out one miracle with that kid, but he wasn't sure he wanted to risk another. If he was bleeding and it wasn't clotting, an ambulance would have the necessarily equipment to take care of it then and now. By the time Hank got there, it could be too late.

But...Libby was prone to theatrics. An ambulance in the middle of the night would only garner attention that might call too much attention to the fact that he hadn't quite taken Mr. Bryant's firing to heart. Libby wasn't stupid, though. She would call 9-1-1 if she had to...wouldn't she?

Throwing off the sheets, Hank wasted no time in finding a pair of shoes. He grabbed his phone and his keys, jogging a little--just in case.

-o-

Finding the place was easy. Driving there at a speed that wouldn't get him arrested, however, was not. It was just that he didn't know the severity of the situation--he didn't know _anything_ about the situation. He didn't know how Tucker had been hurt, how badly he'd been hurt. He didn't know if Tucker was actively bleeding or if it was an internal hemorrhage again.

He didn't know _anything_ and he had one awful scenario after another running through his head.

When he got there, he threw the car into park, nearly running as he approached the house. He rang the bell--loud and fast--and then gave up and tried the doorknob instead. It was unlocked, so he went inside.

"Tucker?" he called. "Libby?"

Despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, the house was nearly fully lit. He went in farther, looking for some kind of sign.

"Libby?" he called again.

"He's here!" he heard Libby call distantly. "He's here!"

There was the sound of footsteps, moving fast and getting closer. From behind him.

Hank turned away from the stairs, looking back toward the dining room. "Libby?"

"Hank!" she called. "Tucker, Hank's here!"

He was moving to the other room when Libby popped around the corner. Her presence made him stop in surprise.

Libby's eyes were wide and frantic, rimmed with red. Her hair was disheveled and pushed sloppily off her face. More than that, she wasn't wearing much--her legs were bare and she was barely covered with a button up dress shirt--of the male variety.

Then she spoke: "Hank!"

And he could smell the alcohol.

He recoiled a little, an admonition on his lips.

But Libby was grabbing at him, pulling him into the dining room. "Thank God!" she said. "You're finally here!"

Hank was feeling more than a little confused, and his concern was oscillating with his frustration, and then a whole lot of righteous indignation when he saw the empty bottle of wine, the half-finished bottle of champagne, and a suspiciously empty bottle of what looked like tequila on the table. "What happened?" he asked.

If she heard him, she didn't show it, but he knew her persistence had little to do with the alcohol. "Tucker!" Libby called. "Tucker!"

The lack of response from Tucker was making Hank even more nervous than the sudden thought of alcohol poisoning in teenaged kids. "Libby--"

"I can't believe you called him," Tucker's voice broke off his sentence.

"Of course I called him. How could I not call him? You're bleeding!" Libby exclaimed.

Tucker appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, and Hank's eye were drawn to the towel that swathed Tucker's hand. It was mottled with red and the kid was clutching it tightly enough to be meaningful. "Maybe you're mistaking it for red wine," he suggested glibly, which was really not so encouraging, as far as Hank was concerned, not in terms of the alcohol content of the evening or in regards to the condition of Tucker's hand.

Libby gaped at him in frustration. If she was melodramatic when she was sober, she was downright theatrical when she was drunk. "Do not mock me, Tucker. I know what your blood looks like. Especially _your _blood."

For his part, Tucker was upright and looked intact, and a lot less affected than Libby. Despite the bloodied hand, the kid seemed no worse for wear. He was sporting his typical sardonic smile, though he wasn't wearing much more than Libby was. The boxer shorts were enough to cover the essentials on the bottom, but the kid wasn't wearing his shirt, most likely because Libby was.

And Hank was starting to get some really disturbing images in his head, which was more than enough reason to focus on one pressing issue at a time. Safe sex lecture: much later. The risks of underage drinking: as soon as he could fit it in. Look at the bleeding hemophiliac: _now_. "Look, you two," he said. "Do we want to get to the reason why I'm here?"

Tucker laughed a little. "You mean besides the fact that Libby believes that calling a doctor is the answer to everything?"

Libby, to her credit, would not be deterred. "I only called because you've been bleeding for the last thirty minutes," she said. "That's not normal, right? I looked it up. And it said that any prolonged bleeding in a hemophiliac should be checked out immediately. All the sites said it."

Between a bleeding hemophiliac and a tried-and-true cyberchondriac, there was no doubt that these two made quite a pair. Were it not the middle of the night and so painfully obvious that they had been drinking and messing around, it might have been funny. For now, it was just mind-boggling and increasingly worrisome. Alcohol, sex, and blood hardly made for a positive combination.

Too bad they seemed too busy arguing to notice.

"Yes, and are the sites people who have lived with hemophilia for sixteen years?"

"You're going to use rhetorical arguments on me? Really? _Now_? Tucker, I am only looking out for your well-being."

"By trying to WebMD me into submission? I knew I should have set the child protection password."

"Oh, my God," she said, shaking her head, looking at Hank. "Are you just going to _stand _there and let him _bleed _to death?"

It was then that Hank remembered that he was actually an active participant in this at all; house calls in the middle of the night were simply not his forte, and though he was getting a clearer picture of what had actually happened, there were still more questions than answers and at this time of the morning, he was still pretty slow on the uptake.

But Tucker _was_ bleeding, which he figured he should probably do something about. "Do you mind if we take a look at that?" he asked, nodding toward Tucker.

The kid flashed him a smile, holding his towel-covered hand up for a second. "Now we've seen it and we can move on our merry way. I'd pay you for this visit, Hank, but this one comes out of Libby's pocket."

She threw her hands out. "Oh, please. It's your shirt! You know it's _your shirt_, and I promised to give it back to you in the morning" she exclaimed.

"And I keep forgetting that your ability to discern figurative language stops working after midnight," he said.

"Tucker," Hank broke in, trying to reassert some semblance of control over the situation. "Come on. Just let me take a look. There is kind of a lot of blood there."

Tucker looked at his hand a bit sheepishly, and Libby launched herself into a fresh tirade.

"He's dying, right?" Libby asked, turning to Hank with an intense stare. "I think he could have sliced the flexor digitorum profundus. Or maybe the sublimis. At this rate, if we can't get the bleeding under control, he could be at risk for hypovolemic shock. He is pale, don't you think? And if he went deep enough, it could even cause permanent damage to the adductor pollicis." She made a small wail of fear. "What if he's permanently impaired!"

"Libby, I told you, I barely cut it," Tucker said in exasperation. He shook his head and looked at Hank. "She called you while I was in the bathroom."

"And you should be glad I did," Libby told him. "I just couldn't take the chance, after I found out all the important nerves that run right through that part of the hand. And if that gets infected, you could lose your entire _arm. _I don't know why you insist on playing with knives."

"Using a knife for a normal household function is hardly playing," he pointed out. "And _you _wanted the lime, and a knife was about the only option unless you wanted me to attack the thing with my teeth, which would be unpleasant for me _and _the lime."

"This is so not my fault," Libby said. "Stop justifying your reckless behavior on my whims, no matter how petty you may judge them to be."

It was almost mesmerizing watching them go back and forth, a continual volley of words and jabs that seemed fitting for a couple who might have been married for thirty years. Not a pair of drunk, rich teenagers.

And yet, it all still obscured the problem: the cut on Tucker's hand, which, as far as Hank could tell, was in fact real, if the bloody cloth in Tucker's hand was any indication.

"How about we talk fault later and let me see if Tucker is in fact bleeding to death or not?" Hank interjected, strong and definitive.

Libby cowered at that, but Tucker seemed reluctant. "I told you," he said. "I'm _fine_."

"Yeah, you don't have such a good track record with that," Hank pointed out.

Tucker gave him a humorless look. "Seriously, man, I _know_ about this stuff," he said. "After sixteen years, I know when I've got a bleeder and when it's going to clot."

"Yes, well, as it is clear you are already a patented _liar--" _Libby began.

"I didn't lie to you about the lime," Tucker said. "Omissions are not lies."

Libby threw her hands up. "You said it was no big deal!" she exclaimed. "And the next thing I know, you're bleeding _everywhere_. That, Tucker--_that _is a big deal."

"Yes, but the problem wasn't the lime--"

"No, the problem was that you opened the bottle of tequila and we _both know_ you can't handle tequila."

Tucker rolled his eyes. "So now we're blaming the tequila?"

"No, we're still blaming you for telling me that all you had to do was get some lime and that it was no big deal and then you sliced yourself open and are refusing to let Hank see!"

At which point, Hank found his opening. "And since I did come here at three in the morning, why don't you just humor me and let me have a look?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and even. Any added concern would send Libby's hysterics into overdrive and the only way to make inroads with Tucker was an appeal to common sense.

It was a good thing this kid seemed to trust him implicitly. Though Tucker looked reluctant, Hank could see the kid was wavering. "Fine," he said.

"Thank _goodness_," Libby said.

"Come on," Hank said. "Let's at least do this sitting down."

Tucker consented tacitly, following without comment to the couch. Hank sat down next to him, while Libby hovered. Tucker gave her a look, before holding out his hand to Hank.

Gently, Hank pulled away the blood-soaked towel, dabbing away the blood to get a look.

"See, I told you!" she said. "Nerve damage, right? Assuming it clots. Is it clotting? It should be clotting!"

Tuning Libby out, Hank gauged the cut. It was small and shallow; there was no way it should have resulted in that much blood. "How long ago did this happen?"

Tucker shrugged. "An hour or so."

"Has it gotten worse?"

Tucker shook his head. "No, that's what I told her," he said, looking pointedly at Libby. "I know how this works. It bled pretty bad at first, but it slowed down. It's just been seeping."

Hank looked at it, tilting Tucker's hand slightly in the light. The kid seemed to be right. "I still don't like that it's seeping," he said.

"Seeping is bad--is seeping bad?" Libby asked.

"Seeping's not bad, but it's not good," Hank told her, then looking at Tucker again.

Tucker pursed his lips. "So?"

Hank sighed. "So, I think we need to watch it a little more," he said. "If it's still bleeding at all in twenty minutes, we may need to think about hooking you up to some factor eight."

Tucker nodded. "That sounds reasonable enough," he agreed. "Okay."

Libby looked desperately between them. "Okay? Okay? Okay, what?"

"Okay, you can go to bed now," Tucker said. "I'm fine."

"He's fine?" she asked, turning big eyes to Hank.

And, in that moment, it was hard to be mad at her. There was a certain wide-eyed innocence about her, and, even under the effects of the alcohol and the time of night, she was just scared for Tucker's safety. She loved him, showed more devotion than most people twice her age. It was hard to reprimand her for that, even if her methods were more than a little over the top.

"He's fine," Hank said, rummaging in his bag and pulling out a bandage.

She swallowed, nervously. "He's really fine?"

Tucker's face softened. "Seriously, babe," he said. "Go to bed."

She nodded, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "You wake me if there is _anything _wrong," she said, looking at Hank with a sudden clarity.

It was slightly unnerving--the whole thing. Being called, finding Libby half-dressed and intoxicated, seeing the blood on Tucker's hand. But this much he could promise: "Of course."

With that, she looked at Tucker again, and reached out and touched his hair softly. With one last lingering glance, she turned, making her way up the stairs.

Tucker watched her go, sighing when she disappeared. "She never ceases to amaze me," he said with a small shake of his head.

Hank glanced at him, pressing the new bandage to the wound. "I could say the same for you," he said.

Tucker raised his eyebrows, turning his eyes to Hank again. "I didn't drag you out of the bed at three in the morning," he protested.

"No, but you are the one sitting here, bleeding."

"Seeping," Tucker clarified. "You said so yourself."

"Uh huh," Hank returned. "You care to tell me what happened?"

Tucker gave him a look of nonchalance. "The knives pulled a _Beauty on the Beast _on me," he said. "I was just minding my own business, and the next thing I know they're singing and dancing. Consider this a self-defense wound."

Hank was too tired to even humor the kid with a smile. "Want to try again?"

"No, I'm great thanks," he returned.

"Okay, so why don't I give this a go, then," Hank said, leveling the kid with a patented doctor stare. "You and your girlfriend are in the house--_alone_--and you decide to make yourself some drinks--even though you're underage--and then you decide to start slicing some limes with really sharp knives despite the fact that you're drunk and that one wrong slice could make you bleed out?"

Tucker nodded seriously. "You know, you forgot the about the part when I decided to try juggling them to entertain myself."

Hank was not amused, and refused to soften his glare. Tucker wanted to joke his way out of everything, but this _wasn't_ funny. From Libby being there, clad in one of Tucker's shirts no less, to the copious number of open alcohol bottles, to the still seeping cut on Tucker's hand--this was anything but _funny_.

Tucker just rolled his eyes. "I'm kidding," he said. "Seriously, Hank, you need to lighten up."

"No, you need to grow up," Hank shot back. "What are you even thinking? What is Libby even doing here in the middle of the night? Where are her parents?"

Tucker made a face and scratched the back of his neck with his good hand. "You know how you think my family's messed up?"

"Yeah," Hank said.

"Libby's is just as bad," the kid continued with a shrug. "It's one of those Hamptons' prerequisites. If you're not a screwed up family, you might as well try buying real estate on the moon. It keeps the social scene nice and unpredictable."

"So, what about the alcohol," Hank persisted. "You two are underage."

"The housekeeper had a really bad day," Tucker tried with luster. "So we found her with all the cases open and we couldn't let her take the heat for all that expensive alcohol all on her own, could we? She does need the job."

Hank pressed his lips together, and intensified his glare.

The teenager sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "It's not as much as it looks like," he said. "I swear."

"You were impaired enough to cut yourself," Hank pointed out, glancing at the hand again. "And Libby is wasted enough that she actually _went to asleep_ instead of pelting me with symptoms about every auto-immune disorder ever defined."

Tucker reddened a bit. "Well, to be fair, it _is_ four in the morning," Tucker pointed out. "And we really didn't get much _sleep_."

A surge of frustration swelled in Hank. He liked Tucker. Tucker was funny and smart; he was genuine and amusing. Under all the bravado and expensive toys, he was a just a kid. All the gifts in the world couldn't make up for the fact that he was sixteen and living mostly on his own with one of the most difficult to live with diseases.

And Hank wanted to be there for him, he did. He wanted to support Tucker, to give the kid a fatherly influence that every child needed. The kid deserved that much--_every _kid deserved that much--and it almost hurt to see how desperate Tucker was for attention and to know all he got were model planes as some token of meager compensation.

All that aside, he did _not _want to watch Tucker self-destruct with reckless abandon just because the kid felt like he _could_.

Well, maybe he could have before. But not if Hank had anything to say about it.

"You need to stop _doing _this kind of stuff."

Tucker looked at him, a little blank. "Doing what stuff?"

"Running around, doing stupid things," he said.

"I'm just having a little bit of fun," Tucker said.

"Yeah, well, do _safe _fun things. Read a book, watch TV, surf the net."

"Yeah, and that sounds like my entire life for the last sixteen years," Tucker said with a sarcastic shake of his head. "I just want to have some real fun, do things kids do."

"Like borrow Dad's car that you can't drive? Cut up limes for the drinks you're not supposed to be drinking?"

"Come on," Tucker said, looking a bit surprised. "The car thing was a fluke. So I need to retake a few courses on how to drive stick. I've relegated myself to only borrowing Dad's automatics these days, if it makes you feel better."

Hank sighed, taking a deep breath to clear his head. "Someday, you're going to be in a mess you can't buy your way out of."

The teenager cocked his head at that. "You really think it's about money?" Tucker asked. "The ability to buy my way out of anything?"

"You wanted to pay me off and buy your dad a brand new car without him even knowing," Hank pointed out.

"Being able to cover it up is just a nice perk," Tucker said. "But if you knew how many times I have gotten caught, you would know that I don't think of myself as invincible."

"Which you're _not_," Hank exploded. "Your condition--it's very serious. One mistake, Tucker, and--" Hank couldn't finish the thought, his frustration choked out by a spike of fear he didn't want to acknowledge.

At that, Tucker laughed. "Is that your official diagnosis, Dr. Quinn?" Tucker said. "Besides, I thought my dad fired you from being my doctor."

It was a nice distraction, but Hank wasn't going to buy it. Not even at four in the morning. Especially at four in the morning. "Maybe," Hank said. "But I told you, that didn't mean he stopped me from being your friend. And as your _friend_, I don't want to see you get yourself hurt just because you feel like being stupid."

It was enough to make Tucker pause, his face losing its sardonic smirk, and Hank saw a flash of innocence. Of the _little boy_ that was still inside Tucker, hopeful and young and needy.

Then, the look hardened. Tucker's mouth flattened. He swallowed. "There are a lot of things in my life I can't change," the kid said finally. "But I can't let those things keep me from living my life."

"And you should live your life," Hank added. "Just..._safely_. You have to know your limitations."

The kid's mouth quirked into the shadow of a smile. "The limitations that you set for me? Or the ones my dad gives me? Or you mean the ones that supposedly the hemophilia dictates?"

It was another diversionary tactic. Hank's jaw tightened and he kept his grip firm on the bandage. "I just don't think you realize what risk you're in."

"I seem to remember a helicopter ride to a hospital and a pretty funky tube in my chest," Tucker pointed out.

"Yeah, and yet you still decided to cut limes while under the influence."

Tucker blinked and nodded with feigned seriousness. "Is that a step down from a DUI or a step up?"

"Hemophilia is--"

"--a very serious condition," Tucker concluded, deepening his voice. Then he laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, I know. I mean, I have _lived_ with it. I was the one who tripped going up the stairs at school when I was ten and almost bled out and ended up in a coma for two weeks after receiving six units of blood. I _get _it."

Hank scrubbed his free hand over his face. "I really don't think you do."

"No, _you _don't get it," Tucker said, anger coloring his voice now. "You've only been hearing what you want to hear. Which, don't worry, I know is a pretty common problem for people who are over the age of thirty."

"Hey, I showed up," Hank interjected.

"And I appreciate that."

"Well, I don't appreciate you acting like none of this matters."

Tucker just made of a face. "This?" he said, nodded to his bloody hand. "Doesn't matter."

"If it didn't clot--"

"It still wouldn't matter," Tucker said. "I don't want to be so scared of what might happen that I don't let anything interesting happen at all. That's what you don't get. And it's why you're poking around with beautiful women who you're clearly attracted to but can't seem to ask them out."

Hank's jaw dropped. "What?"

"You and Jill," Tucker said. "You like her. She likes you. And you two fumble around like you're in junior high. You have to _live _your life. Imagine all the things I want to do but can't because of my condition. I avoid most of them, believe it or not. So I took the car for a spin and a cut a lime--most kids my age are jet skiing or mountain climbing during their summer vacations. I didn't even get to ride a _bike _when I was a kid. So I'll take my kicks where I can find them, and maybe you should, too. You don't have to live in a bubble, so _don't_."

Hank just stared, a little shocked that the kid had said all of that at all, and a lot shocked at how much sense it made. Diversionary tactic--maybe. Honest--most definitely.

They sat there like that, Tucker on the couch, Hank perched next to him with one hand putting pressure on the bloody slice in the kid's palm. Hank stared and Tucker stared back, and nothing seemed to move in the house's open space.

Finally, Tucker laughed uncomfortably. "I have rendered the good doctor silent," he quipped, ducking his head. "Never a good sign."

Hank finally exhaled, fast and long, shaking his head. "Are you sure you're really sixteen?"

Tucker gave him a half-smile. "I remember every long year of it."

Of course he did. Tucker had spent his life with everything a child could want at his fingertips: toys and games, books and televisions. But his parents had deprived him of the attention every kid yearned for. And then his very biology had betrayed him and limited the scope of his opportunity. Tucker had to live in a bubble with the whole wide world within his grasp but not for his taking.

With a steadying breath, Hank forced himself to be rationale. He couldn't be this kid's father, not that Tucker would respond to threats or punishment anyway. "Fine," he said finally. "I'm not asking you to stop living. I'm asking you to be smart about it. Because you're a smart kid. You don't need to be stupid just because you can."

Tucker seemed to consider that. "It never seemed like it would make any difference," he said. "Smart or stupid, my life didn't change. I can get in trouble or I can do my best, and the only thing I get is a model plane. I can be safe or I can be reckless, and I get the same lame _get well _card."

"Yeah?" Hank asked. "What about Libby? How do you think she felt? Do you know how scared she was after you collapsed? Do you realize how terrified she was tonight?"

"Libby's fine--"

"No, you want her to be fine," Hank said. "You act like _no one _cares about you. But the way I look at it, you've got at least two people in your life who care a hell of a lot."

Tucker's brow furrowed, obviously a bit confused.

"Oh, come on," Hank said. "You mean the fact that I came over here at three in the morning doesn't get me counted on your list of people who care about you?"

Tucker actually looked surprised at that, which gave him the appearance of a six year old. Then, he smiled, shy and nervous, and Hank remembered Tucker crashing his model plane and confessing his own fear of flying.

At sixteen, Tucker Bryant was a kid of contradictions. Brilliant, yet as stupid as other teenagers. Mature, yet simplistically childish at other times. Sarcastic and witty, yet vulnerable and needy. Wanting to take risks, yet scared of them all at once.

"Sorry," Tucker said with a sheepish grin.

Hank rolled his eyes. "Well, I don't mind reminding you," Hank said. "But next time you need a reminder at three in the morning--"

"I won't call you," the kid finished with a grin.

"No," Hank said, and he made sure Tucker was looking at him squarely. "Make sure you call me yourself, okay?"

The surprise on Tucker's face gave way to something else--something grateful, something content. "Yeah," he said. "I can do that."

Hank nodded. "You'd better," he said. Then he turned his attention to Tucker's palm, pulling the bandage back gently. The cut was long and red, though not very deep. The blood was growing tacky, and fresh blood barely seeped around the clumping liquid. "It looks like it's clotting."

Tucker looked down at it. "You must have the magic touch," Tucker said.

"That, and you must be downright lucky," Hank said, carefully examining the wound.

Scoffing, Tucker grinned at him. "Right, since being born with the rare gene combination to make my blood randomly decide not to clot is _real _lucky."

"Point taken," Hank said. "But, you have to admit, the timing of your medical emergencies lately have been pretty fortuitous."

"Again, I'm not totally seeing how bruising my heart is actually fortuitous at all," Tucker said, his eyes narrowed in light skepticism.

"Well, you did bruise your heart just one day after I got to town," Hank pointed out, looking up at the kid. "I think that makes you pretty damn lucky."

Tucker nodded in consideration. "I would be even more lucky if you actually kept this one on the DL."

"Hey, you're the one who passed out last time, not me."

"So, does that mean that my little night of summer fun here is, um, just between you, me, Libby and the housekeeper?"

Hank hardened his glare. "I'll make a deal with you," he said.

Tucker swallowed uncertainly.

"You cut out the underage drink fests," Hank said, "and I'll keep this episode between us."

Tucker's face lit up. "Really?"

"But," Hank said. "I'm bribing the housekeeper to keep tabs on you. And if I catch any indication that you've been drinking again, all bets are off."

"But wine at dinner is good for you."

"So is keeping a legally clean record."

"What about just on weekends?" Tucker lobbied. "You know, a little good, Hamptons-style relaxation."

Hank shook his head. "What about never?"

"Parties?"

"That you are too young to go to, anyway."

With a sigh, Tucker groaned, looking at the ceiling. "But what am I supposed to do for fun?"

"Fly model planes?"

Tucker snorted. "Funny."

Hank shrugged, rummaging through his bag for a fresh piece of gauze. "I try."

"Yeah, keep working on that," Tucker advised.

"No problem," Hank told him with a dry grin, tearing off a piece of the gauze.

"No, seriously, when people finally stop calling you back because your bedside manner _sucks_, you can at least market yourself as part-doctor, part-stand up comedian. It might be a hit on the Prom circuit. Treating those kids who drank too much before after party while still cracking them up since they'd still be too drunk to know the difference."

"Hey, it works like a charm for you," Hank pointed out, carefully picking up Tucker's hand again and starting to wrap the gauze around it.

At that, Tucker actually giggled. "Man, it's not that I'm drunk, it's that normally I'm asleep by now."

Hank glanced at a clock. "By 4:30 AM? Remarkable."

"Well, not all of us have reasons to get up in the morning," Tucker pointed out. "And it's not like Dad's around to remind me to seize the day."

Looking at the hand again, Hank tucked in the stray end of the gauze, checking the bandage over briefly to be sure it was secure. "Well, let me tell it to you," Hank said. "You live on one of the most beautiful pieces of land I've ever seen. The idea that you'd rather spend it up all night in this house, drinking yourself into oblivion instead of being up and about during the daytime when you can actually appreciate it, is ridiculous. Talk about living your life. I'm not the only one who's squandering it."

The straightforward answer silenced Tucker, and his brow creased as he seemed to weigh the words. It was a lot to tell a kid, Hank realized suddenly; Tucker was only sixteen, no matter how easy it was to forget. He could just hope that Tucker handled it better than most kids his age would, that somewhere inside all that potential, Tucker would wake up and see that being afraid to fly didn't mean he had to crash all his hopes just to spite them. But Hank was banking on the fact that this kid had reached out to him first, that he wanted guidance and friendship more than he wanted someone cool to hang out with.

The kid dropped his head a little, nodding minutely. "From Dr. Quinn to Dr. Phil," he said finally. He raised his gaze, looking back at Hank tentatively.

With a roll of his eyes, Hank patted Tucker light on the shoulder. "You ready to get some sleep there, pal?"

Tucker giggled again, and Hank could see that he was losing the kid. A little sleep deprivation or a bit of alcohol or a lot of both, Tucker was losing the battle to keep himself with it. "Technically, I'm not even sure I'm totally awake at the moment."

Hank could believe that. "Well, why don't we get you all the way there, okay?" he suggested, standing and pulling Tucker to his feet.

The kid allowed the help, wobbling slightly when he stood. "You know, we could keep the party going," Tucker offered. "Break open a new bottle of Scotch. Dad has some _awesome _Scotch."

He maneuvered Tucker forward a step, keeping a hand gently grasping the weaving teenager's arm. "I thought we agreed, no more alcohol."

Tucker laughed again, hard enough that he almost fell over. But Hank caught him, steadying his with both hands while the dark-haired kid looked at him with amused incredulity. "I had sort of hoped I dreamed that part," he said.

"No such luck," Hank told him, prodding him toward the stairs. "I'll be sure to stop by tomorrow to make sure you wake up and to remind you of it in great detail as you nurse off the killer hangover you're going to have."

Head cocked thoughtfully, Tucker said, "You know, that's probably why I don't do anything some days."

"Yeah, probably," Hank said. "You ready to go up?"

Tucker paused, looking up at the open staircase with a look of intense scrutiny. "And we had something against the couch because...?"

Because Tucker was only sixteen and should have been in bed all night anyway. Because Tucker was a hemophiliac who needed to take care of himself. Because Tucker was a _good _kid, who shouldn't be alone long enough to make a habit of sleeping on the couch drunk.

"Doctor's orders," Hank said instead.

"But you were fired," Tucker reminded him.

"Libby rehired me," Hank said.

Tucker looked at him seriously. "We should probably keep that on the DL, too," he said.

Hank just nodded. "Totally."

With a sigh, Tucker looked up again. "I'm really tired," he said softly, and he sounded so young that it almost hurt.

"I know, pal," Hank said. "So let's get you to bed."

This time, Tucker had no comeback, no quip of protest. Instead, he allowed himself to be guided, one step after another, Hank's arm around his waist the entire way. By the time they reached the top, Tucker was drooping a little, his body leaning against Hank's as exhaustion and alcohol took over completely.

"Come on," Hank whispered softly, adjusting his grip with care. He glanced across the room, which was strewn with clothes and bottles. Libby was already crashed on the bed, turned away from them and sleeping soundly. "Just a little farther."

Tucker complied, his feet moving sluggishly as Hank led him to the unmade bed. He didn't really want to encourage two teenagers to sleep together, but given their current states, Hank doubted there was much risk of them doing much of anything except sleeping for the next eight hours. He'd give them a good sex talk when they were awake and coherent, complete with pictures if he could.

The mop of black hair was lolled against his shoulder by the time they got there, and Hank worked to first sit Tucker on the bed, before laying him back gently on the pillow. Then, he quickly removed the kid's shoes before lifting his legs to the bed.

Once finished, Tucker snuffled a little, shifting slightly before settling deeper into the bed, his head turned toward Libby.

Looking at them, they looked so young. Without their quick banter and steady stream of conversation, both Tucker and Libby looked like the children they were. And suddenly, it felt wrong to be there. Not that he didn't want to help them, but that there should have been someone closer to them who could do this, who could keep them from being here at all.

For all the opportunities he had to fix people in the Hamptons, between the rich and the poor, what hurt he most were the things he couldn't fix, no matter how much he wanted to.

With a sigh, he scrubbed a hand through his hair, and looked at his watch. It was almost five AM now. He had promised Evan that he'd sit down and plan some kind of money flow system over breakfast--which was coming up far too soon.

Scrounging around the room, he found a notebook and a pen, scrawling a note, _Keep the cut safe for a few days and if any bleeding starts, call immediately. _

After the obligatory medical advice, he paused, then added, _Remember what we talked about. I'll be back tonight to quiz you. Study up if you want to keep this whole thing on the D.L._

That wasn't what the doctor in him would do necessarily. But it was what the friend in him had to offer.

With another look at the bed, with Tucker and Libby sleeping peacefully, Hank just wished he could feel like his work here was done. But it wasn't done at all.

He turned, and made his way down the stairs. At the bottom, he stopped, looking up. No, his work here was just beginning.


End file.
